


Pin Feathers and Primaries

by twothumbsandnostakeincanon (somanyofthekids)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Body Worship, Bottom Peter Hale, M/M, There's A Tag For That, Top Stiles Stilinski, Wing Worship, Wingfic, mild possessiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 19:05:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17813747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somanyofthekids/pseuds/twothumbsandnostakeincanon
Summary: Peter’s wings remained sensitive after his resurrection.They were perfect again; perfect white coverts with perfect black primaries. Perfectly glossy feathers, perfectly oiled and perfectly clean. No more twisted flesh. No more mangled plumage. No more broken blood feathers, jaggedly screaming for relief.His wings were perfect.The were perfect, and it chafed him that he had to remind himself of that now rather than simplyknow.





	Pin Feathers and Primaries

**Author's Note:**

> For Featheruary!!
> 
> Everything I know about wings I learned from 1 (one) google search, and other wingfic that I've read. I took a story about werewolves and just added feathers, don't come here looking for scientific accuracy.

Peter’s wings remained sensitive after his resurrection.

They were perfect again; perfect white coverts with perfect black primaries. Perfectly glossy feathers, perfectly oiled and perfectly clean. No more twisted flesh. No more mangled plumage. No more broken blood feathers, jaggedly screaming for relief.

His wings were perfect.

They were perfect, and it chafed him that he had to remind himself of that now rather than simply _know_. The insecurity was unfamiliar to him, and it made him snap anytime someone got too close.

Though, “snap” was possibly too tame of a word. He’d nearly ripped off the arm of one of Derek’s idiots when he brushed behind Peter rather than go around.

He hadn’t stopped snarling until Stiles took him out of the room, murmuring closely in a sharp tone that Peter probably shouldn’t have found as calming as he did. Stiles sat him in a chair with his back to the corner, his wings protected from any chance encounter. Alone with the one person in Beacon Hills that he trusted ( _the one person in the world,_  he deliberately didn’t think), Peter pulled his wings around himself, smoothing down the feathers and inspecting them.

Even his own touch felt different from before. Somehow more startling. So startling, in fact, that he hadn’t allowed anyone else to touch them for fear that it would be worse.

Not that he’d had a lot of offers for grooming.

“Do you want help with that?” Stiles asked, several steps away, leaning casually against the wall. His own wings were loosely tucked behind him, feathers in constant adjustment, twitching minorly in response to some input no one else could see. Peter’s fingers paused in their combing as he looked at him closely.

Stiles’ expression was open, but understanding. As if he didn’t expect Peter to say yes, but still wanted to extend the offer and everything it implied. Peter slowly shook his head.

“Alright,” Stiles said simply. “I’m going to go pick up dinner for everyone. Isaac’s allergic to garlic, right?” He tapped his lips thoughtfully. “I think I have a hankering for Italian.” He gave Peter one more smirk before leaving.

God, Peter wanted to see that smirk from a different angle.

Stiles started staying closer to Peter after that, quietly keeping the others away from his wings and making sure he was the one to stand behind him if it was unavoidable. Peter was pathetically grateful, so of course he said nothing.

It worked well- perfectly, even- for weeks, until they were stranded at the loft together once again. Side by side at the table, they flipped through page after page of rare bestiaries, searching for anything that could help get rid of the newest encroaching danger.

It was late- as had been the night before, and the night before that. Stiles was clearly feeling the strain. His eyes drooped, along with his shoulders, and finally his wings.

His loose brown speckled wings brushed up against Peter’s tightly drawn ones. Peter shuddered. The touch was so light, so soft- it felt electric in a way that didn’t make sense. When Peter glanced over at Stiles, he saw that his eyes were closed, face resting on his arm, mouth slightly open. Asleep. His wings fell a little further, gliding along Peter’s. An unexpected noise left Peter’s mouth, something between distress and profound relief.

He clamped down his jaw, refusing to let out another sound. He reached out a hand, unsure of whether he wanted to wake him. Lightly, he laid a hand on Stiles’ leg.

Stiles’ brow furrowed, but his eyes didn’t open, and his feathers unconsciously fluttered against  Peter. A long buried instinct led him to extend one wing around Stiles, sheltering him. Stiles’ feathers stopped moving, going lax again in the warmth under Peter’s wing.

Peter watched his face for a moment, and then closed his own eyes, awash in the sensation of closeness. He allowed himself a few moments, and then returned to reading.

An hour or so later, Peter felt a deliberate stroke down one of his feathers, and shivered. He looked over to see Stiles awake, head still on his curled up arm but his hand extended toward Peter’s wing. A single finger lingered on the tip of one of his secondary coverts.

“I thought you didn’t do this,” he said, voice rough and quiet with sleep.

Peter hesitated a moment before answering, long enough that Stiles dropped his finger.

“I usually don’t,” he said. “Ever, actually.”

Stiles made a questioning noise in his throat, turning his bright eyes away from Peter’s wing toward Peter’s face.

“You fell asleep,” he tried to explain, but that wasn’t really an explanation was it? He’d just wanted to be closer to Stiles, so he’d gotten closer to Stiles- closer in the only way they weren’t already close. “They’re sensitive,” he tried again. “But not so much with you. Not in a negative way”

Stiles hummed thoughtfully and carefully reached out another finger, watching Peter’s face for permission. When Peter hesitantly nodded, Stiles looked back at the wing, running his finger down the vane of the same feather, reaching the tip before bringing his entire hand up to the wing to run through the secondary coverts down to the secondaries. Peter bit back a moan at just how good it felt, having to briefly close his eyes. When he reopened them, Stiles was looking straight at him.

“Would you let me groom you?” he asked. Peter nodded again, this time with zero hesitation. When Stiles immediately pulled his hand away and stood up, Peter was confused and a little lost. Stiles raised an eyebrow at him.

“Unless you keep your oils down here…?”

Oh, right. Peter refused to blush, and instead stood to lead Stiles up to his room where his conditioning oils were. He went straight to his vanity and pulled out his favorite bottle, turning around only to find Stiles close enough to kiss.

“Is this the one you want?” Stiles asked, taking the bottle from him. “Fancy.”

Peter rolled his eyes.

“Yes, _some_ of us don’t like to cover our feathers with 2-in-1 Hair ‘n’ Feather goop,” he sniped, trying to cover up another shiver as Stiles lightly touched a hand to his wing tip, directing him to the stool Peter usually used for grooming.

“I’ll have you know that my goop is perfectly serviceable, _and_ it smells like coconut,” Stiles said, opening the bottle and rubbing a small amount between his fingers.

Peter was ready to argue back, but cut himself off with another unfortunate moan the second that Stiles’ fingers began to run over his feathers. He stopped it just as it started, but he could see Stiles’ smirk in a mirror.

Peter stayed as quiet as possible after that, sinking into the sensation of Stiles paying attention to every single individual feather; from the downy barbs to the vane, all the way to the tip of the rachis.

The last time he’d asked someone to groom him was the day before the fire. He remembered Talia’s calloused hands tugging a few hard-to-reach tertiaries straight before asking him to pick up Cora from school. It was a painful memory now- they all were, really.

Memories of his mother lecturing him on how to keep his feathers glossy, or memories of the help he’d given Talia’s children as they learned to care for their own wings.

Friends leaning over to fix a stray feather as they walked to lunch.

Sensual grooming done by partners after sex, more often than not leading to messing them up all over again.

Touching, teasing, caring-

“How long has it been since someone did this for you?” Stiles asked quietly, bringing Peter back into the moment.

“The hospital,” he said shortly, not explaining further. Judging by the grim look on Stiles’ face, he didn’t need to.

“So… when you say they’re sensitive…” Stiles asked slowly without actually finishing the question.

Peter sighed.

“I have no doubt that it’s more psychological than anything else. Likely exacerbated by my… scrupulous standards for grooming partners.” He frowned at his primaries. “That doesn’t make it feel any less real, though,” he finished with a murmur. Stiles hummed in agreement.

“So I fit your ‘scrupulous standards’?” he asked. Peter looked back at the mirror, catching a sly smile on Stiles’ face.

“Absolutely not,” Peter drawled. “I’ve decided that if no one can meet my standards, I may as well just let any idiot touch my feathers.” He felt a slight tug where Stiles was working, extremely gentle but hard enough to know it was on purpose.

“Excuse you, I am the one holding the fancy French oil right now. Don’t make me dump it-” he suddenly stopped when Peter gasped. “Shit, shit, I’m sorry, what did I do?!”

Peter’s heart was racing. Stiles had reached his scapulars- the first feathers to burn off during the fire, and the only ones that never attempted to grow back during the coma. Even Peter hardly touched there, relying on the shower head and his spray bottle to take care of them.

“No, it’s fine, it’s just- sensitive,” he said, voice strained. After a moment, he could feel the heat of Stiles’ hands hesitantly reach out and touch them again, spreading the oil downward. It sent a zing of electricity straight into his belly, arousal bringing a slight flush to his cheeks. He tried to will it away, but every new touch, every finger caressing the soft, short feathers was a fresh attack. He began breathing more heavily, trying to get himself under control, until he looked back in the mirror. He met Stiles’ concerned eyes with his own blown pupils. Surprise passed across Stiles’ face, followed quickly by heat and delight.

_“Oh.”_

Peter froze, only to crumple when Stiles touched Peter’s scapulars more firmly, decisively running his fingers betweens them, less grooming and more just _touching._ Peter gasped again, followed quickly by a moan.

“Peter?” he said, a breathless question in his voice. Peter immediately nodded, stoking the fire inside himself higher.

“God, _please.”_

He nearly choked when he felt hot breath across his back, the brush of lips coming ahead of the cascading sensation of his fingers. Stiles crouched lower and lower, eventually reaching the bottom closure on Peter’s shirt. A moment later it was loose, sliding around his wings and off his arms. The bare skin contracted slightly in the cooler air of his room, only to be immediately warmed by Stiles’ returning closeness.

His hands returned to Peter’s wings, oil abandoned, eyes dark and intent on the feathers and joints in front of him. More firmly than before, he ran his hands through them, nails occasionally lightly scratching at the skin underneath.

“I’m the only one you’ve allowed to do this,” he said quietly, an edge of wonder to his tone. Peter wasn’t sure if he was talking to himself or to Peter, but his hands took on a possessive edge, curling around the feathers more firmly.

Oh, Peter thought. _Oh._

Peter moaned more openly now, the intense feeling overwhelming him as Stiles touched where, and _how,_ no one else had for years. The warmth, the caress, the gentle tug- all of it combined to send Peter spiraling higher. He was so invested in the sensation that he was taken by complete surprise when the stool spun around, suddenly facing Stiles.

Stiles surged forward to kiss him, hands sliding across his feathers to grasp behind his neck. Their lips were hot, feverishly moving against each other with desperation.

“Please let me fuck you, please,” Stiles murmured against his lips like a prayer, supplicating his deity.

“Yes yes yes,” Peter answered, just as fervently.

A few stumbling moments later they were on the bed, clothes abandoned, lube present, Peter’s head down toward the mattress as he rocked back onto Stiles’ cock. Or tried to anyway.

Stiles had a death grip on his hips and ass, holding him still.

“Just-” he heaved a breath. “Just give me a minute.”

Peter was not inclined toward patience, particularly when a good fucking was imminent, but he stilled for a moment, curious. Stiles’ hands slowly spread up to his lower back, running over the dimples there before reaching his tertiaries. Peter’s ass clenched around nothing at the touch, unable to ignore the worshipful feeling of his hands. The amount of reverence in every brush of fingers, every graze of nails, was overwhelming.

Stiles’ fingers once again worked their way up to his scapular feathers, and then he gently yet firmly gripped them, and allowed Peter to sink down onto his cock.

Peter found himself willingly giving up control to Stiles. He guided and directed every movement, every slide of their bodies, every change of pace. Peter just submerged himself in the feelings of Stiles’ hands in his feathers, and Stiles’ cock in his ass.

Stiles fucked into him with the same care that he’d shown with his grooming, the same possessive edge he had when he’d realized he was the only person Peter trusted to touch him. He stroked along his interior walls in rhythm with the stroking of his feathers, heat spiking upwards with every downward pull.

Peter was clenching his teeth, trying to hold on, not wanting this to be over too soon, but it was so much. So much sensation, so much closeness- _so much._

And then Stiles leaned over, shortening his thrusts but keeping the same amount of power, and he pressed his mouth to Peter’s feathers, tongue running along the edge of one feather.

The hot, slick feeling overwhelmed him, his entire body clenching as he came, every stroke of Stiles’ cock extending the orgasm. Stiles eventually stilled as Peter rode out the last of it, pulling out when he collapsed forward. Peter heard him furiously stripping his cock for a moment before a punch of air left him, and less than a second later he felt it splash across his lower back. Peter felt a moment of regret that it was on him instead of inside him.

Peter managed to retract his right wing just in time for Stiles to flop down next to him on the bed. He rolled his head to look at his blissed out post-orgasm face, finding it exactly as enticing as he’d thought it would be.

Still clearly mostly out of it, Stiles flung out his own wing around Peter, scooting in as closely as possible to cocoon the two of them together. It was a sweet, intimate post-coital gesture; one Peter had never experienced, not even before the fire. The speckled texture of Stiles’ brown feathers were almost startling next to his own pristine white and black ones. Peter thought he’d never seen anything so beautiful in his life.

“You gonna let me groom you all the time now?” Stiles mumbled, still floating a little.

Peter couldn’t have stopped his smile if his life depended on it.

“If you insist.”

Stiles’ lazy grin slanted across his face.

“I do insist.” He yawned. “And jus’ me? I’m the only one who gets to touch you like that?”

“Yes, Stiles. As long as I’m the only one who gets to be wrapped up in your wings.”

“That’s a fuckin’ deal.”

Moments later they were both asleep, feathers resting alongside each other.


End file.
